


I'm Listening (now)

by cosmicfuss



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: (not really unrequited pining), Aftercare, Arthur is a family man change my mind!, Arthur's Journal, Dom/sub Undertones, Frottage, M/M, Oblivious Arthur, Subdrop, main focus is on john/arthur, unrequited pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-04-06 01:08:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19052188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmicfuss/pseuds/cosmicfuss
Summary: Arthur Morgan is a lot of things. Being good at listening isn't one of them.John Marston is a lot of things. Being good at talking isn't one of them.or: John has never really hidden how he feels and Arthur still hasn't caught on, until maybe he gets a big push





	I'm Listening (now)

_He loved these moments, he really did._

_Being with the gang, with his family, it was nice, 'course it was nice. Dutch, the man who called him_ son _and taught him to read, to shoot, to learn to love. Hosea, the man who called him_ son _and taught him to write, to fish, to articulate, to trust in his senses. They were his family._

_But, here._

_Being with the two of them, light and breathy laughter in the background as Arthur spun wildly, rough_ _hands clasping little ones._

_This was nice, too._

_Being with the mother of his child and his boy, his family, it was real nice. Eliza, the woman who'd denied his efforts countless times before finally rolling her eyes with a laugh and calling him 'Too damn charming for your own good, Arthur Morgan.' Isaac, his boy,_ his son,  _who always squealed when Arthur trotted up and hitched his horse outside the small house and hollered, 'Pa's here, Mama! Pa's here!'_

_Arthur's dry lips threatened to crack with the stretch of his grin, cheeks sore by the end of the day, every day._

_He taught Isaac how to read and write and shoot and articulate and love and think just like how the two men he called fathers did him. He was a good kid, Eliza too._

_She'd been nineteen- nearing twenty she never failed to remind him with a haughtiness years beyond her, too damn like Ms Grimshaw he thought- when they'd had Isaac. But Arthur- barely over twenty-one and too restless to be anything than himself, anything than an outlaw- couldn't stay, and she knew that._

_Sometimes, Arthur thought that maybe giving up a part of himself wouldn't be all that bad._

_He didn't dwell on the thought, couldn't. He owed Dutch and Hosea and Ms Grimshaw his life, and there was rarely ever and 'out' for people like them. He was a no-good, he knew it too._

_But, sometimes._

_Eliza would sit and let a four-year Isaac sit on her lap, the two of them rocking gently in a chair, and she'd read to him. And Arthur would sit across the room- still not far, in such a tight space- and watch and he'd think._

_Maybe it wouldn't be half bad, this._

_"Get up, you lazy ass," Eliza said, her voice sounding nothing like herself. She had a rough tone, sure, and could use a lilting heavenly one that all waitresses seemed to share with working girls in saloons._

_"You hear me, c'mon, git!"_

Arthur snorted, pushing himself up from the bedroll.

"What, what is it dammit?" He demanded, glaring blearily up at John, voice rugged and husky and torn from years of the outlaw lifestyle. Arthur hated his mind for still remembering so freshly what hers had been, even so many years later. The weight of dreamt words, memories, heavier with guilt and time.

"C'mon you old man, Dutch wants us to follow up on some tip the girls heard over in town." John waited just a second longer as Arthur heaved himself from the ground.

Arthur pushed his feet in his boots, focusing on the toughness of the laces instead of old ghosts. Wouldn't do no one any good if he got distracted and shot on some tip. He could see John by the horses, saddling up already. Man really wasn't giving him a second to eat, was he?

Went to figure, the one,  _one_  time he'd slept in after dawn was the day he'd be rushed out of camp instead of wrangling others to do the same. Figured, alright.

Arthur saddled up Patty, giving him a good-morning oatcake and brushing. He may have had to forgo a morning meal but his boy was getting what he deserved and nothing less.

"Y'know I'm beginnin' to think you like your horses more 'an you like any the rest of us," John commented, patting his own horse's neck as he mounted him.

"I do, most of you anyway." Patty beat the ground impatiently as Arthur pulled himself up, apparently anxious for some exercise- as if he hadn't just been out riding yesterday, the testy bastard.

He didn't need to look to know John was rolling his eyes, and silently Arthur hoped they got stuck at the back of his head. Could take a look in that empty skull of his.

They rode out quietly, both waving a greeting to Javier on guard duty. Arthur let John take the lead whenever the path didn't allow them to travel side-by-side, letting his eyes survey the landscape as they traveled from their camp.

He remained mostly quiet, figuring if John was going to fill him in on the job then he would. He noticed, though, that they were heading in the direction of the nearby town so he didn't wonder hard about their destination.

Not many folks passed them when they hit the main path, only the occasional wagon filled with produce or other supplies, likely goin' to or coming from a trade.

Arthur's ears picked up a waterway and remembered the trickling brook, mentally noting that it'd be a good spot for fishing. His pole was still mounted on Patty's saddle from their expidition the other day, though all that fish was likely gone already. Probably wouldn't be anything big, but Pearson was always happy with a little something extra.

Maybe the stream fed to a river, that'd be real nice.

The town wasn't too much further, especially with Arthur actively keeping his mind going. They hitched their horses at the saloon and Arthur raised a questioning brow, one that went almost ignored.

"Girls didn't get all the details, we're followin' up is all." John mumbled, going ahead of Arthur. He hummed to himself, getting out the brush to give Patty a quick once-over in the way he liked. Arthur spoiled his horses, he'd been told as much plenty over the years, but it wasn't like that'd be making him stop anytime soon.

"Good man," Arthur murmured, stashing the brush away as he left him and Old Boy. It could be called busy in the saloon, considering it was the morning and the town wasn't all that big. A few drunkard locals, a few drunken passer-bys, a glum bartend who had the same look most did in these little towns.

John was sitting with a couple local fellas, not getting far with them from what Arthur could see. He got the bartend's attention and motioned for a drink, taking a seat a couple away from the men.

"Y'really don't know when to quit askin' kid," Arthur knew already that John must've gotten impatient and demanded answers, was probably stewing on that now. He rolled his eyes, bringing the cheap whiskey- awful, sour shit that burned in a less than pleasant way- to his mouth.

Arthur listened as John tried to salvage the conversation, then as his boots crossed the room and the bang of the door. He tried not to dwell on how much of an ass it'd be to find him later. Arthur eyed the two men up, wondering how John had managed to screw this one over. Seemed simple enough, Arthur supposed.

"You believe that kid, Teddy?" One scoffed, miserable bags under his eyes.

"You don't? How many fine lookin' fellas walk through this town, huh? An' you go an' muck it over like this every time." Presumably Teddy laughed, bitter, at his friend's expense.

"Oh,  _fuck_ you! Y'know you'd do the same thing if you ever talked to 'em first,"  _Ah_ , Arthur sipped, downing as much of the stuff as he could so he tasted as little as possible. He glanced the two of them over, remembered their faces.

Teddy, plump and hairy and wrinkled to all hell from a lifetime of working in the sun. The other one, leaner but meaner with a nasty scar running from the corner of his mouth up to his ear. Neither of them were much easy on the eyes and both had waves of stench hitting Arthur from his seat, but Arthur supposed he was probably the least qualified to judge others for that, his mug as ugly as it was.

He put a few coins on the bar and nodded at the bartend, not looking back at the pair as he let the heavy door swing shut behind him. Surprisingly, John was leaning on a post by Old Boy and Patty, no longer fuming.

"You get anythin' from 'em?" He asked, gruff and annoyed.

"No, not after you went an' pestered 'em. I'll get them to talk later today, should be simple enough," Arthur gave Patty a little rub, scratching behind his ears. "There any plans we  _can_  follow up on 'till then?"

"No, girls said we shoulda gotten info outta 'em easy. See how well that turned out." Arthur pointedly didn't mention that John had been the one to get nowhere fast.

"I'm gonna see if I can't catch a few from the stream nearby, head back here later on." Arthur mounted his steed, John following suit.

"Don't figure how you're gonna get 'em to talk, y'ain't exactly the most silver-tongued." John snickered as they made their way down the streets. Arthur hummed at that, otherwise quiet. Arthur was glad he hadn't been of mind the night before to put his fishing rod away proper, too tired to go through the usual process.

If there was one thing Arthur Morgan prided himself on, it was his loyalty and dedication to making sure the gang had everything they needed, food included. Wasting time travelling when it could've been avoided made his skin crawl.

And so, stream fishing it was for a few hours. John wouldn't be good for much, but at least he could dig up worms and take the fish to camp when it was time.

There wasn't a path of any sort from the trail to the stream, not that they really needed one. John fell back as Arthur led them to the little brook, only about two yards across and not more than thigh-level deep but it'd do well enough he hoped.

"Y'think you could dig around for some bait? Gotta lure 'em with something." John grumbled under his breath as he unmounted, shoving loose soil aside with his knife. Bitch as he did, Arthur knew he wouldn't stop until he found something. He attached the hook to his wire, surveying the water.

Wasn't too full, but it wasn't so sparse that he was of mind to ride on further upstream. John gave him a bit of bait and a swear, one of which Arthur got and the other ignored. The cast felt right, left him feeling calm as the lure bobbed with the water.

He felt at peace when he fished, a pleasant reprieve from fighting and robbing and shooting. Put a pole in his hands any day, but it wouldn't provide real money for the group.

A fish nipped, once, twice, bit. Arthur reeled and paused with practiced ease, didn't register that the sounds of a blade scooting aside soil and rocks had ceased. He estimated the weight as he reeled it in, not a beast by any means but certainly not a baby. Maybe ten, fifteen pounds?

He reeled until he could pull it from the water, the thing flailing like a fish out of water, and, well. Arthur steadied it with on hand, the other still on the pole.

"You wanna tie this thing up, I'll get one or two more and you can take 'em back to camp." Arthur grunted, already eyeing the ground for where John must've put the bait. Said man's hand came into his vision, nails caked in earth and a wriggling worm on his palm.

"Thought we was gettin' information from those fellas later," John replied, tone glum though he took the fish, still fighting without abandon.

" _I'm_  gonna get those fellas to talk,  _you_  gotta get these fish to Pearson 'fore they start to stink."

"They already stink." 

Arthur cast his line and hoped the next fish would bite quicker.

He listened to John in the background while he waited, small mumbles unintelligible as he faced Old Boy.

The next fish came quick, and another after that, and it felt all too soon the sun was skirting off behind trees and Arthur was mounting Patty and John was still complaining at being left off like that.

"When we get what we need to know, we'll both be on it. 'Till then, just lemme handle this. You just focus on gettin' those fish to everybody, gonna make for a decent enough addition to Pearson's godawful stew." John huffed what could've been a laugh, face away from Arthur.

"Yeah, whatever. You just get those fellas to squeal, don't feel y'need to hold back on 'em." John muttered, face full of too damm much for Arthur to get a good read, and Arthur wondered what it was that the Teddy feller had said earlier. He just turned his horse the opposite direction.

"When do I ever." Another huff of a ghost of a laugh out of John, and then they were going off, the beats of their hooves distancing by the second as the sun fell.

The ride didn't take too long, and neither did finding one of the two men from the saloon. It wasn't Teddy, that much he could tell from the slimmer silhouette, but even in the growing darkness he could spot that mangled face, left side of his face twisted from a years-old scar. Arthur slowed Patty to a trot, steering right up to a hitching post not too nearby.

He surveyed the street- mostly barren, dark and too far off in the middle of nowhere for something fancy as streetlights they had in big cities. No stray wanderers, it looked like. Good and quiet, sounds from the local saloon barely hitting them a few buildings away.

The man took little notice of him, only giving Arthur a glance when the man bumped shoulders with him, just slightly, in what could've been called a stumble if Arthur did such things sober as he was. The man looked up, right side of his lip lifting to match the scarred left side.

"Sorry 'bout that, friend, didn't see ya there in this dark," he said, tone a little low and a lot slurred from drink.

"Not at all, not at all," Arthur put a grin on his face, smacked the man on the side and let the hand stay a second. "Say, you think you could tell me somethin'?"

It was easy, far too easy, to slip into this. Arthur was sure it was the dark and the drink in the man, but it wasn't long before they were slipping through an ally, behind an old outhouse, the man whispering praise of Arthur's looks.

It was so easy, to slip into the man's mouth, to pleasure him and himself, to block out the squawks of hens and snorts of pigs and keep his ears alert to any footsteps- none came, but the man did, far sooner than Arthur would've preferred.

After that it got only easier, the man spouting great brags of his plan to rob a well-off family a couple towns over, of how he knew they kept to a reliable schedule with their supplies and in a weeks time he'd be the big, great king of thieves. Dumb fool spoke too much and walked away robbed blind, and soon of a future score.

-:-

"Still keepin' quiet huh?" John snorted, horses covering up the sound as Arthur steered them. He was positioned under the wagon's tarp with some supplies, a meager sliver between planks of wood his field of vision.

"Ain't got nothin' to say, Marston, and it ain't my fault you couldn't get information outta 'em. Fellers jaws are loser after a couple'a punches." He kept his tone level and annoyed, used to the indignant whining. It was a familiar enough routine that he knew the boy wouldn't be suspicious- he'd screw up, Arthur would go back later and fix it, they'd go and get the job done.

It was hard to tell, sometimes, what Marston would do at this point in the spat. Continue to get riled up and spout big bullshit, or let it be as is and stew until he reached a different boiling point.

"Keep your mouth shut, Marston, we're comin' up to the gates," Arthur warned, knowing the kid would listen to that, if nothing else. And they were, wooden fenceposts and a man not too far ahead of them now, awaiting their usual shipment.

Arthur kept his face passive as he slowed the horses, stopping as he walked closer.

"You a new hand over at Hamish Ranch? Little old to start ranchin' now." He tutted, face full of all unpleasantries. Arthur just lifted the corners of his lips slightly, nodding.

"Yes sir, Mister. Me an' the Missus lost our home'n savings in a fire a while back, Mister Hamish helpin' us back on our feet. Ain't much, but it's work," the lie slipped off his tongue easy, sounding just truthful enough for the man to nod and wave him in.

"Sorry to hear about that then, Mister Hamish been real good to us for years too. Just lead the horses over to the stable, couple'a hands'll help you unpack." Arthur nodded, hoping John would have enough sense to hide and hide well.

 As Arthur steered the wagon over, two boys approached with a friendly amount of hesitance. They opened the creaky doors, hitching them in place so they wouldn't swing closed again. He was ready to swear up and down as he heard a subtle clunk from under the tarp, just hidden by the whine of the rusted hinges.

"I can help you boys unpack, be outta your way shortly." Arthur grinned, already moving around the back. He made large sweeping motions with his eyes, lips still upturned as the two of them approached. "Real lovely place y'got, thought  Mister Hamish was just layin' it on thick," he winked at one of them, got a smile in turn.

"Yessir, one of the best places to work, I think! Treat us real well here, the Sinclaire's." The other boy nodded along, smile wide. They each looked a little younger than John, probably not yet even 20. Felt bad for a second, about robbing them like they were about to do.

The Sinclaire's ranch looked like they could afford a hit.

Arthur could see John escaping from under the tarp, feet quiet as he came up behind the boy closest to him. Just as he fell unconscious, beat upside the head with John's gun, Arthur put the other to sleep with him. He and John met eyes with a nod.

Made quick work of the barn, snagged any and everything valuable- which was a fair bit, honestly, since the building was used more for storage than animals.

-:-

_Arthur smiled, softer than he had since the last time they'd found time to sneak off together. Everything about him felt soft when they could manage this, softer than he had any right to be considering all he'd done and who he was._

_But God damn him for it if He so wished, because Arthur wasn't giving this up._

_Mary Gillis was one hell of a woman, more than he could ever have hoped to have, far more than he deserved. She was the key to it, he thought. This soft warmth that settled on his skin, more pleasant than the late afternoon sun in spring._

_Arthur had picked her up after one of her social teas, she and her brother riding slowly on his steed as he walked beside them. He hadn't brought a spare horse, hadn't expected Jamie would be coming along too. That was alright though, he'd just had to improvise a little._

_They were coming up on the small lake, Jamie squirming excitedly in front of Mary on the saddle._

_Boy was excited for near anything, Arthur thought, though Mary always corrected him with 'anything_ you _show him.' The thought made Arthur ache a little, sometimes. Tore him up whenever he thought that he could've had this with Isaac._

_Arthur set the thought aside, focused on the present._

_On Jamie's squeals and hoots of awe as he ran around. Of Mary's soft smile, hands uncalloused in his as he helped her down. Her arms, around his neck, and eyes, honey brown and full of things neither he nor she dared speak yet._

_"Oh Arthur," she breathed, his lips tingling with the taste. Arthur was filled with it again, that gentleness that he hadn't thought himself capable of after such terrible grief. He shut his eyes, the corners of his mouth upturned. He let his forehead rest against hers, eyes slipping shut._  

Arthur hummed as he felt the first bits of light hitting his face through the open flap of his tent. It had certainly been a while since he'd dreamt of the past, and his fingers itched to draw, to write the memory.

It was early enough yet, so he did just that. A small indulgence, one he felt comfortable indulging in. When it came to his journal, there was not much he didn't allow himself to put to paper.

Some things, certainly.

Thoughts he had about certain men were left to bounce around his head, too big a risk even in the privacy of the journal. Maybe it made it all too real, too permanent if he wrote and drew the things that raced through his mind. Maybe he didn't want to take the chance of being tossed ass-first out of camp by people he considered- most of which, anyway- to be family.

Where he wanted to draw hard plains of rigid, work-earned muscle, he instead put down soft curves. Where he wanted to describe the scratch of a beard on his neck, he penned the pecks of plush lips.

Some things were simply left to echo in his mind, especially all things concerning one fool named John Marston.

Simple complaints were welcomed, though often filtered. He wrote about John's failures in robberies and hair-brained schemes. He left out the heated impression still left on his shoulders where John carelessly threw his arm, the contentment he felt at seeing the man laugh carefree and happy.

He never wrote about the roiling in his stomach, the bitterness he felt at seeing John flirt with their newest gang member, Abigail.

She was nice enough, Arthur supposed.

She was tough as nails and didn't let anyone give her shit in camp, and Miss Grimshaw seemed to approve her work ethic. He had nothing to complain about in regards to her, really. Except her apparent girlhood-crush on John.

Oh, Abigail and John had something going, alright. Anyone with two eyes and something between 'em could see that.

Abigail had joined with the gang little over four months prior, introduced by Uncle. Came from a whorehouse, apparently, in some beaten-off little town that got enough traffic to warrant a brothel but not enough to be a good trade point.

Arthur didn't mind her, really.

She was sharp-witted, caught on quick that outta all the men in camp Arthur was one of the least likely to taker her up on any offered services. She had tried, after the first few weeks or so. Had come up to his tent after a drunken night of celebrations on a good hit. He'd been confused, until she dropped to her knees by his cot.

He'd had to usher her out, not unkindly, a hand on her arm to steady wobbly steps as they made their way to her shared tent with Miss Tilly. She had smiled thankfully, nodding when Arthur insisted Abigail be put to bed for the night.

There'd been a couple other sparse instances after that, one just as drunk and the last fully sober. It was then, apparently, that she had realized he wasn't just denying her on account of drunkenness. That had been two months ago, and they'd been nothing more than friendly since.

Arthur didn't begrudge her for it, not with the way she'd been brought up. An orphan, escaped to nowhere fast at a young age. She'd been prostituting most her life, didn't mind sex with the men around camp.

Arthur only hoped she didn't end up with a child, didn't want to imagine what could happen.

Didn't want to think about his own past. Didn't much like thinkin' hard on his present life either.

-:-

It was getting late, not that Arthur was much concerned. John should be at their shared camp still, had finally relented to watch their meager belongings they'd brought while Arthur went on a short supply run in the nearest town.

They were on another hunting trip, at Dutch's insistence that Arthur was the best one to teach John some  _goddamn patience, Arthur, same way Hosea put it in you_. Unfortunately, Hosea had been off investigating his own tip and Dutch had had just about enough of Pearson's yapping for more meat.

And so Arthur and John had been off.

Except they hadn't expected a migration in this particular area, making it harder to find good game, and their days stretched on until they needed more cans of food.

Arthur flashed a grin at the shop owner, aware.

Aware of the eyes on him, and not in any way that meant the man was suspicious of Arthur stealing- which he might have, had this look not been  _this look_. Arthur wasn't sharp to much, but he knew a man with similar inclinations.

He wasn't even an ugly man, either, which was all the bonus Arthur would've needed ordinarily. Thick arms and broad shoulders, slighter than Arthur but only just. Nice black hair that looked long enough to get a fist in.

He maybe reminded Arthur of someone, which may be the only reason Arthur was thinkin' about doin' this.

"That all I can get for you? What brings you 'round anyway?" The shop owner grinned, eyes flickering to Arthur lips as he licked them, the skin dry under his tongue.

"Well, friend," Arthur began, a few cans of food in hand as he made his way to the counter. "I'm on a hunting trip right now, running low on luck and food." He set the wares on the counter, leaning on it beside. "Trouble is, though, I seem to be low on cash too. But there's gotta be  _somethin'_  I could do for you."

The man's grin stretched into something else, something wider and darker. Eyes followed, blue overtaken by black. He swallowed hard with interest, moved a step closer to Arthur.

Arthur did as he always did- or, at least as he did every few months- and was soon following the man up the stairs to the small living space.

It was pretty good, Arthur supposed.

The man was attractive, friendly at the start. Hell, the bastard even reacted well to Arthur's fingers gripping at his hair and pulling, teeth at his collarbone where the shirt would hide it. Probably the best lay Arthur'd had in a long while.

Arthur still found himself, cock up this man's ass with vaseline dripping down his thighs and hand tugging his head back, thinking.

Of John, mostly.

Of how John would react to Arthur grabbing that long hair, and  _pulling_. How he'd feel about a bruising pace, fingers hooked in his mouth to keep it open. The noises that would fall out of those parted lips.

That's what finished him, had him spilling inside the man.

He offered to help with clean up, but the man insisted on taking what he'd come for and going. Arthur left with his parting words falling on his ears, telling him to feel free to come back anytime.

He took his cans of food and then some- some smokes, snacks, and oatcakes- and was off.

John was still at camp, blessedly unaware of anything that had occurred since Arthur's parting. He pulled a face, though, and Arthur felt the bones under his skin come alive a bit. In anxiety or adrenaline, he did not know.

"You really found time to bed some poor woman. And Jesus, Arthur, 'least y'could do is scrub the smell off." Right. Arthur knew it was ridiculous to think John would assume anything other than the obvious, that Arthur had joined a woman in bed.

Right.

Obvious.

Arthur wondered, briefly, how John might react to Arthur's inclinations. How after Mary and certainly after Eliza, he had taken to bedding men. They would never fall pregnant. Wouldn't expect him to change his lifestyle. Didn't need to worry about permanent or temporary or worries, just a single night before the sun rose.

Then Arthur tossed John his dinner, sharp words on the tip of his tongue. He swallowed them and opened his own can, falling heavy on the ground beside John.

"Least I have the common decency to do it outside camp," he muttered, keeping bitter out of his tone. John just scoffed in reply.

"Guess it don't matter if I try'n tell you  _I haven't neither_."

-:-

Sometimes, more often now than in years recent, Arthur wrote about John Goddamn Marston in his journal. Not for nothin' good, usually.

The fool.

Arthur wasn't of any mind to assume that he'd ever see John's face again, the man had been gone for over a month now and hadn't sent any sort of word. Abigail was furious, but she had the gang there to support her and Jack whenever she needed.

She was a proud woman, but not too proud. Well. Sometimes at least.

Abigail had gotten better and worse about asking the gang for help with Jack since John had left. Better, since she actually  _would_  ask. Worse, because it was put off until she was within an inch of insanity.

Motherhood did that to a single mother, Arthur knew.

But Abigail wasn't alone, and he'd be damned if he let her think she was. It hadn't been all that long since Eliza, since Isaac- a lie, seven years was a long time for an outlaw who spent every day thinking of their last.

He remembered enough, though.

So it was often Arthur who crept into Abigail's tent when Jack was becoming too much for her. Was Arthur who soothed the one-year boy, rocking him gently in arms bigger than the boy. Abigail seemed endlessly thankful, tried to tell Arthur as much but he never had any of it.

Gang was family, that was enough for Arthur.

-:-

Furious, white-hot anger. That was all Arthur could feel as he laid eyes on John Goddamn Marston.

It took Bill and Javier holding him back so he didn't pummel the man, fists clenched and teeth flashing. John looked stricken, hurt as if Arthur actually had hit him.

Deep,  _deep_  in his belly, Arthur thought that John had no right to look like that. Not when Arthur had spent the last year helping Abigail raise  _John's own son_ , when a part of Arthur wanted to forgive that year.

The part of him that had spent near-fourteen years with John. The part of him that remembered John being young and terrified and looking up to Dutch as a father and Arthur a brother.

And another part, the one that saw how John eventually filled out into manhood. Nicely set shoulders, rough and worn hands, deep eyes warm and comforting.

But now, staring the man down, he just really wanted to break his goddamn nose.

(He did, later.)

-:-

Ms Grimshaw had to scold Arthur several times, for hovering.

 _Wasn't hovering_ , he'd argue,  _just makin' sure my hard work rescuing the fool don't go to waste_. 

She fixed him with a look that said  _I know you're lying to yourself but don't you do it to me_. Too damn observant of things she had no business lookin' at, Arthur thought. As long as she would let him, he was by John's bedside.

Whenever he woke up, delirious with pain and fever, Arthur made him drink water, got him to nibble some food down when he could. Occasionally John would be cognizant enough to recognize him.

At least, that's what Arthur had thought up until he'd looked at Ms Grimshaw and said, like a fool, "Arthur, you've- how long's'it been?"

She'd just about strangled him herself.

But John's short bursts of energy while he drank continued-  _"Arthur, start a damn fire," "Art, help me wi'those deer, huh?" "Arthur," "Arthur."_  - up until his fever broke and illusions stopped.

And Arthur was there, helping him sit up and get water and a small meal down- Pearson's stew again, all they'd had to eat since getting stuck in this god forsaken blizzard.

When John was well enough and Arthur was certain he wouldn't die in the night, he went back to his cabin and read through his journal. Read about better days, before there was all this,  _this shit_  between them.

-:-

The declaration came on a hunting trip, and  _oh_  if that wasn't just something else.  _Like the good days_ , or what have you.

Hosea was getting too old to hunt, much as he said otherwise, and Charles was out with Micah and Javier on a job because neither he nor Arthur trusted those idiots together enough to get a job done right.

So Pearson had bitched and moaned and Dutch sent them out to hunt game.

And John, being John, had met one of Arthur's cold comments with his usual lines, until he didn't.

"I'm  _serious_ , Arthur, ain't you ever  _think_  about it, in all this time, why I left? Jack  _ain't mine_." Arthur had scoffed, because  _well, hadn't he heard this a hundred times before?_  

"You can try'n talk your way outta that with everyone else, but not me. Abigail is a good girl, John, and Jack's smart. Just, do  _right_  by your family, for once."

"They're as much my family as Tilly and MacGuire and the rest of camp, as much as Dutch and  _you_ , because Jack  _ain't_  mine." John sounded less angry now than he ever had, more tired and defeated and it wasn't a good look on him, Arthur thought.

"Maybe, maybe not. But Abigail believes he's yours and Jack does, too." Arthur started, tone different than usual because  _this_  part of the conversation was new and vulnerable in a way neither man typically allowed.

"John, you want my advice? Try'n give them a good life, not- not  _this_." Arthur wasn't sure what he'd said, but John flew into his own brand of anger, red-hot and thoughtless.

"God dammit Arthur, I don't  _want_  your advice! I want you to  _listen_ , for once, to what I'm sayin' but you  _never have_." Arthur stood, staring at John's face full of fury and- and something.

A lot, too much.

"Y'ain't never been very good at  _sayin'_  nothin' and I ain't ever been good at listenin' so why don't you quit  _sayin'_  it and actually  _speak_." As quick as the words were out, a fist was hitting the side of Arthur's head. Not hard enough to do any damage, though John  _could've_.

He hauled him backward by the shirt, Arthur's back hitting a tree. He could get out of this, he knew it. But it was coming quick and John hadn't ever acted like  _this_  with him.

"You always say you ain't smart, you ain't a good thinker, listener. You ain't, not when I'm tryin' to tell you somethin', you know that?" Right then, all Arthur had a mind to think about was the leg shoved snug between his own and the heat of John's body pressed on him.

"I've tried tellin' you so many times, for a long time, Arthur Morgan. You just ain't heard it."

"Tellin' me what?" It was hushed, just barely above a breath. He could taste it, bouncing off John's face and coming back to his own but mixed up with John's breath. 

And then his front felt cold, John stalking away with hunched shoulders and clenched fists.

Arthur felt almost wrecked, except they had hunting to do still and the camp wouldn't feed itself. He grabbed his bow- Charles had helped him make it, had taught him how to shoot and shoot  _well_ \- and was mindful of the forest around them.

He'd hunt, and then he'd think about  _that_.

-:-

_It was warm and sunny, just him and John by the brook. He was trying to teach the boy patience, but at twenty-one he was full of energy and loathed the waiting game that came with fishing. It was sweltering out, midday summer sun beating down relentlessly through tree leaves._

_John had rid himself of his shirt, complaining that all it did was soak up his sweat and make him wear it. Arthur warned him of the peeling skin and blisters he'd be getting, but John was having none of it._

_Stubborn as a mule, John._

_His face was already feeling the effects of the sun, it seemed. His cheeks, ears, neck, his skin was all burned pink as he sat with Arthur. Arthur kept his eyes on the brook, knew he didn't have any right to think of John with the same perversion he did nameless men in nameless towns. Besides, the boy had Abigail._

_Arthur had no right._

_(And yet. He'd put down just a bit of that day in his journal. Cherished the memory something dear.)_

 

_John was over seventeen, in all rights a man, Dutch had said. The other week John had mentioned in passing that he had never bed a woman._

_"Was an orphan with nothing for a long time," he'd shrugged. "Didn't have time or energy for anything other than survival."_

_Dutch had planned to fix that. He and Hosea brought Arthur and John out to the town's saloon so that John wouldn't stick out like a sore thumb, and it hadn't taken long for Dutch to eye down the prettiest lady and call her over._

_She'd been alright, Arthur supposed. Pretty enough._

_John hadn't looked particularly enthused, taking her hand and following her up the stairs. But then, John had always been something like that so he didn't think much on it._

_Even when it was just the two of them, John would act a little out of place sometimes. Certainly being in a busy saloon with your family watching you be escorted by a working lady would make the young man feel off-kilter._

_It hadn't taken all that long for John to return, less than an hour. Maybe less than half that, Arthur wasn't sure._

_Dutch had simply clapped him on the back, full of pride for the boy, his boy._

 

_John hadn't complained once, which was odd for him all things considered._

_Normally the group made some effort to celebrate everyone's birthdays, because being an outlaw never guarantee you'd see another one. This year, though, the gang was struggling more than usual because of, well._

_Rhiley Jones had joined with them, had been one of them for all but a month or so when he'd betrayed them. Dutch had shot the man in camp after finding out, and they'd had to pack everything and leave quick as lightning after._

_It had only been a week and they were still getting back on their feet, a lot of their food supply missing now since it hadn't been prepped and ready for travel when it all went down._

_And John turned nineteen today, while the two of them were out hunting for game and the camp continued to be unpacked._

_When Arthur questioned him about it, John had smiled a little and shook his head._

_"Ain't got nothin' to complain about, Arthur. I think this is a good enough gift." John looked happy when he said it, eyes bright. Red crept up his neck and ears, then, and he added, "y'know, I appreciate just havin' any family now is all. I'm real thankful for that."_

_Arthur had chuckled and shook his head, draping an arm over the boy's frame. "Happy nineteenth, now let's hope your dumb ass makes it another year."_  

Arthur shook himself awake blearily, first rays of sun hitting his canvas.

John Goddamn Marston.

Huh.

Maybe Arthur was good at thinkin' after all, if he managed to at least put that together. Even if it took him a while, he got there- had to count for somethin' right?

-:-

It was Arthur's idea, this time, to take John hunting. Said he didn't want to bother Charles, who was out pretty regularly bringing food back.

John was hesitant, at first, but Arthur had rolled his eyes and fixed him with a stare and John was shaking himself up to get his saddle ready.

They spent the first day travelling West, stopping when their horses needed to rest or drink. John didn't do much talking, but that was fine with Arthur because he wasn't much in the mood yet. He was still figuring out what he was supposed to say, and when a good time was.

John figured it out for him that night, the two of them sitting under the stars in front of their tent, horses grazing not too far away.

"The hell'd you bring me out here for, if all you're gonna do is ignore me?" Arthur had been under the impression that  _he_  was being ignored. He wasn't sure how to answer this, then decided maybe he wasn't the best with words anyway.

"Jack ain't yours, huh?" Well it hadn't meant to come out, but there it was. John gave him a look like he was getting riled up, but Arthur just kept staring at him, passive as anything.

"No," it came out slow, like a question, like an answer he wasn't sure he was supposed to give.

"I'm listenin' John."

Arthur hadn't realized that that was all it would take. To see something deep and dark shift in John. To see so much shining in warm eyes again, like they hadn't in years- not towards Arthur, anyway, not that he'd  _seen_.

"I only had Abigail a couple'a times, and too far back to have been responsible for Jack. Months too soon, for how far along Abigail was. Tried tellin' you, before. You just, you never  _listened_ , Arthur." John's tone wasn't mean and didn't accuse him of anything now, not like it had weeks ago.

He just sounded tired.

"I'm listenin' now, John." He was. He was listening and he was watching.

Watchin' John's eyes meet his, the tilt of his body, the apprehension in his muscles and spine that was keeping him at arm's length. Arthur leaned closer, good and slow.

He knew this was a risk.

He wanted to take it anyway. He  _wanted_.

He took.

John's hand in his. John's cheek in his palm, his lips, softer than Arthur typically was with men. The same caresses he'd saved for Mary so long ago, for Eliza so briefly.

And then John leaned back and snapped, low and dark, "Stop treating me so damn gentle, 'm not a woman." And Arthur took more. Took every last thing that John Goddamn Marston was willin' to give him.

Took his bottom lip between his teeth and sucked and pulled, a hand burying itself in John's hair and tugging back, teeth falling to his neck. Felt his pulse run wild under his lips and smiled against the skin, biting.

John groaned, head slipping even further back, spine arching, and wasn't  _that_ a pretty sight.

"Y'don't even know how long I wanted you to do this," John mumbled, gripping Arthur's shirt as leverage to pull himself up, leg swinging over Arthur's lap.

"Tell me." The breath hit his ear in a huff that sounded like  _years_  and Arthur suppressed a shiver.

Arthur wondered, briefly, for how long  _he_  had wanted this. Years, probably.  _Years_.

Goddamn.

Arthur leaned back, hand still gripping a handful of John's hair, tugging, and admired him. He was a pretty thing, skin calloused from work and life, practically  _writhing_ in Arthur's lap.

 _Jesus_.

"You gonna get all these clothes off ya, Johnny boy?" Arthur grinned something dangerous, liked the way the air seemed to get caught up in John's throat at the words. John didn't even nod, hands flying to his own shirt buttons and Arthur's prick stirred at the sight.

John worked quick, hurried in a way Arthur didn't often see him. The only time he could think of was when fire ants had crawled their way up his clothes and he'd shucked them faster than he could blink, smacking his skin all the while fruitlessly. He'd nearly drowned, wading into a slow-going river, the fool.

Arthur's thought cut off soon enough, as plains of skin were exposed, lit by the campfire.

When John was finished with his union suit he looked at Arthur, blinking owlishly as the man hadn't moved to undo even a single button. He was already half-hard and eyeing Arthur like he wasn't sure if it was even warranted.

Arthur looked to him as if to say,  _well?_  He leaned back on his palms as John knelt by him, hands moving slow towards his chest. Arthur had had enough men and had known John long enough to know to wait for this.

Where John lacked in patience, Arthur more than made up for.

John undid the buttons far slower than he had his own, eyes wide with a look that was somewhere between struck stupid in awe and damn near grateful. He unclasped Arthur's suspenders, his pants buttons, undid his boot laces and worked them off each foot.

Arthur shifted slightly so John could finish the job, standing while John did the same for his union suit. He saw John toss it into the small pile he'd made. Arthur walked into their tent, knowing John would follow.

Arthur waved John over as he sat, John settling on his legs again in seconds. Arthur liked the feel of rough hands on his shoulders, of strength under his fingertips. John dove into his mouth like he wanted to be eaten, tongue sweeping Arthur's mouth with a vigor.

Arthur would've huffed a laugh, had he been able. You could take the boy out of a man but never the impatience, it seemed.

Arthur's right hand wandered along John's skin, his left anchored on his neck and jaw. He liked to change the pressure, swallowing moans when he pressed hard, scratched, squeezed. Loved the breathy gasps John made when he touched him light, muscles jumping under the pads of his fingers.

John arched into him when Arthur got a hand around his cock, giving it a firm tug that bordered on painful. Arthur could feel the shudder wreck John, bottom lip pulled hard between his teeth as he kept in a moan.

Arthur felt nearly light-headed with pleasure. He'd had a few damn great lays in his life but this was  _John_ , and askin' anyone to outdo him was downright  _unfair_. 

"Wanna hear you, Johnny," Arthur whispered, lips upturned as they brushed against John's. "Lemme hear what 'm doin' to you." Arthur stroked him again, his left hand reaching higher to grip the soft dark tresses there. He didn't yank his head back this time, just pulled the strands taut and kept them fisted like that.

John's eyes were almost nothing, swallowed by black pools of want.

Arthur's hand shifted to accommodate them both, cocks pressed together. John just about screamed, hips bucking into the touch and grinding down for pressure.

Arthur smiled and hummed as he stroked them, pulling John's face down to him, tongue-fucking his mouth at the pace he set for them. John was pliant in his hands, moving wherever Arthur wanted him.

"You gonna come before me? What if I say you can't, want you to wait 'till I'm done?" Arthur murmured on his lips, saw John's eyes roll back a little- not from sass, or Arthur might've punished him a bit.

"'M gonna wait, wait 'till you," John shuddered again, breath coming out sharper now, "wait for you to tell me." Arthur kissed him, soft and gentle at first and then punishing. His hand left John's hair to grip at his ass, nails creating streaks of red along the length of his spine.

Arthur had always wondered what this might be like, what  _John_ might be like.

If he'd like his hair pulled and ass slapped, if he'd forgo pride for Arthur to have him, to  _take him_. A thought crept up on him,  _will John ever want this, you, again?_  and he stuffed it down to the lowest and loneliest parts of his mind to worry on later.

Now was for John.

Now was John on his lap, rutting into his hand and grinding on his cock and moaning the whole way. Bruising his hips with the grip of his fingers, taking a muscled cheek in his hand and palming it.

"Arthur," John breathed, and he knew he was close. Arthur made a ring with his hand and held John, stopping his movement entirely with a hand on his hip. John cried out, in pleasure or pain Arthur didn't know- both, he hoped quietly.

"Want your mouth on me, Johnny boy. Think you can finish me off like that, with just your mouth?" It wasn't a fair request, Arthur knew, because he was so goddamn close already and John's wide eyes that held something akin to  _excitement_ and  _thrill_  certainly did nothing to dampen that.

John shuffled down almost immediately, a hand on either of Arthur's thighs. Didn't even look up at him at first, just eyed his prick as he leaned in, closing them as he got his mouth around it. John moaned low and throaty around him as Arthur put a fist through his hair, tight.

Arthur wasn't particularly big but he certainly wasn't  _small_ , so when John sunk down until his head hit his throat, nosing Arthur's hair with something like reverence, it took every ounce of control for Arthur to not lose it there, to not shoot down his throat and end it all too soon.

He just tightened his hold on John's head, his left hand supporting him so he didn't just up and fall backwards.

"You got practice in this, Johnny? You think about me before, 'bout my cock in your throat?" John moaned loud in response, head bobbing back up. Arthur could feel the flat expanse of tongue on his shaft as he dragged up, shuddered hard.

The vibrations and just  _John_  were becoming too much too fast.

He tugged John up, not quite off his head yet. John tongued the slit, fingers digging into Arthur's thighs and he realized it was because he'd said  _mouth only_  and John had to keep his hands off Arthur's cock he wanted it so bad.

Another hard shudder ran up Arthur's spine, a moan drawing out and filling the space as he came.

Some of it John swallowed down, but only after it hit him on the lips and cheek. Arthur's left wrist was sore from supporting his weight the whole while, but he worked his fist around himself to pump the rest of come. John swallowed thick, mouth and face still smeared with strings of white when he looked up.

"You been so good for me, Johnny. C'mere." John did, instantly, at the words. He straightened up, lips and prick both swollen and red for reasons of their own and  _damn_  if it weren't a pretty sight. Arthur swiped seed off John's cheek with his thumb and pressed it over his lips.

John took it in his mouth without goading, tongue swiping the fluid up and working the digit like he had Arthur.

Arthur would've smirked had he not been so absolutely  _gone_  on John Goddamn Marston right then. 

He fisted around John's cock and pulled at it, pulling his hand from his mouth to massage John's balls as he pumped him. John's entire frame trembled, his forehead dropping forward to Arthur's shoulder, mouthing his neck as he came.

Arthur was still for a while after, John simply sitting on his lap and breathing against his skin. After a moment Arthur's hands moved to John's hips, then up and down his sides, soothing him. Arthur wondered how much John would let him do, now.

Would he let him wipe him down, John's come smeared across both their stomachs? Would he let him heat up dinner, wait patiently for it in the tent? Let Arthur simply hold him as they slept, curled around him? Lay out patient for him and let Arthur draw him?

Eventually, John's shaking stopped. He didn't move, though, continued to breathe in Arthur's skin as come dried on them. Arthur's hands encircled John, pulled him forward slowly until he and John were laying down.

Much as he wanted to clean them both up proper, he wanted  _this_  too. Existing together.

John's skin was damp with sweat, skin hot. Arthur frowned slightly at feeling a small tremor still running through John's body.

"John," he started, voice soft and reserved for putting Jack to sleep or when he'd stayed with Eliza and she'd had particularly awful night terrors. A practiced, comforting lull of a tone. "How 'bout you lemme get some water for us?" John stirred just enough to slump onto the bedroll.

Arthur was quick and efficient, gathering a pouch of water and a small bit of food. Nuts, berries, and dried jerky, but it was enough for now.

Arthur stretched out beside John, offering the water to him. He took a few small sips, a drop escaping the corner of his mouth. Arthur hummed, letting John roll back into his warmth and settled a hand on his side.

He'd seen this once or twice before. Well, heard of it mostly.

Some people- mostly women that he'd heard about, but men didn't often talk about sex with men and women didn't often talk about sex at all- were unlike themselves after a round. One man he'd been with had been the same, actually.

He'd been a lanky feller, liked Arthur for his broad shoulders and worked arms. He wanted to be smacked around, he'd said. Told Arthur what he wanted, and Arthur delivered just fine. He'd been quiet when they finished, had the sweats and said he felt exhausted and like he'd be sick.

Arthur felt bad for it and stayed with him, got him food and water and dressed him, rubbed tense muscles out.

He'd apologized after, said he should'a warned Arthur and that he was grateful he'd even stayed. Paid Arthur a good bit for it, too, said it was the least he could do.

Arthur figured it might be something similar, so.

He gave John water, got him to eat a few bites. Let John lay and absorb his heat, rubbed wide circles over John's skin and scratched softly at his scalp.

Didn't take too long for John to relax, really, and soon after was halfway to sleep.

He set their snack and water aside and let John sleepily bury his nose in Arthur's chest, head pillowed on his arm. Arthur let his own eyes close with a grin, the smell of earth and something distinctly  _John_  filling his nose as he fell asleep.

Arthur supposed it couldn't hurt too much to put off the talkin' part until breakfast. Already knew they'd be fine anyway, knew he'd probably go and fuck it up a little or maybe John would somewhere down the line.

They'd be fine, though, in the end.

Arthur let his eyes shut, the weight of John a comfort draped across him, and let himself feel lighter than he had in years.

**Author's Note:**

> in which arthur calls people "____ enough" when he's upset and trying to be optimistic/not unkind
> 
> also there actually was an unnamed gang member killed in the camp once, probably somewhere between 1887-1894ish!! Tilly mentions it once to Arthur but we never get any details on who it was or what happened, only that it was a man and he was shot in camp
> 
> if there's any additional tags that should be added/changed, go ahead and comment them!! I'm not the best at tagging so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


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